


Echo

by andrea_deer



Series: 200 Prompts Challenge [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mind Palace, Mycroft's POV, right before the end of season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer
Summary: Mycroft carefully put a hand on the kid's curls, playing with them slightly. He was allowed this here, to show some weakness. This Sherlock wouldn't use it against him and if he did -he wouldn't- it would never get outside. He was safe here.





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** I've used a prompt from my [200 prompts list](http://thenorthwing.livejournal.com/10960.html#cutid1): _"004. Echo"._

Mycroft entered the richly decorated mansion of considerable size - a palace one could say, though it obviously lacked the towers just as much as Mycroft lacked tacky pretentiousness. 

The spacious hall greeted him with warm, soft light and he left his leather suitcase and an umbrella by the door, symbolically leaving the work issues with it. He hung his coat and walked deeper into the building, enjoying the perfect order of it, the sure knowledge of everything being right where it belonged and where he knew it should be. Absolute perfect order just as he needed it to be.

He let out a slow breath in relief before making his way upstairs, to the right wing of the house. Nine steps up, turn to the right, three more steps up, perfect symmetry. He moved another twelve, long steps and reached the last door on the left. They were all identical, obviously, and perfectly evenly matched by the corridor opposite, but this particular door was just slightly different thanks to the pirate flag draped artistically over it.

Mycroft knocked in a quick rhythm and opened the door, walking in.

The room was quite spacious, with a boat-shaped bed, a desk with a microscope on it and various toys laid around on the floor. Sherlock looked up from his current occupation, which seemed to involve a toy ship "sailing" over an open book, the boy was pretending to read.

"Hello, brother dear," said Mycroft with a small smile. "Are you having fun?"

"No," said the child quickly, dropping the toy. "I'm reading."

"And that is not enjoyable?" The kid frowned and Mycroft paraphrased. "Aren't you enjoying what you are reading?"

Sherlock mulled it over, clearly torn between admitting having fun and posing as a strictly intellectual pursue.

"It was adequate."

Mycroft sighed with some fondness. He clearly remembered, when real Sherlock learned the word "adequate" and applied it to everything. Attempting to never show any enthusiasm nor disgust. Clearly copying his older brother, who tried to do the very same thing, Mycroft thought bitterly, watching his emotional, bright creature of a brother with his chaotic, frog-jumping brain and barely contained spirit. 

Mycroft carefully put a hand on the kid's curls, playing with them slightly. He was allowed this here, to show some weakness. This Sherlock wouldn't use it against him and if he did - _he wouldn't_ \- it would never get outside. He was safe here.

Sherlock frowned at him but didn't move away from the touch.

"Sometimes I really miss you, Sherlock."

"You said sentiment is not an advantage," the child replied with a small frown.

Mycroft thought of his brother stuck in a cell as he did whatever he could to delay his punishment. He would go crazy in prison, but the other option was unthinkable. Mycroft wasn't sure _he_ wouldn't go crazy if Sherlock was killed right away. Perhaps, they could postpone it, postpone everything and - and - and plan something on the way. Perhaps Sherlock would manage against all odds, perhaps Mycroft would finally think of something, some way to save the brat without ruining himself, showing his hand even more obviously...

"Unfortunately, it's also often unavoidable," he admitted to the child.

Sherlock blinked up at him, clearly absorbing the information. Too bad it wouldn't affect his adult, real version now. Then again, perhaps Sherlock learned this lesson on his own as well.

"This is so fucking touching, I think I puked," said a man, leaning against the doorway and Mycroft looked up to see the twenty-something version of his brother. 

Brilliant, cruel and completely high.

"Can't you even here obey a simple request and stay in the room designed for you?"

"Wouldn't be very realistic now, would it? Besides, I thought you needed some help in saving my precious life." Sherlock smirked around the fag in his mouth.

"Yes," admitted Mycroft, standing up. "I could use someone with... less strict approach to the matter."

"And to think you'd find someone like that in your own mind," the older Sherlock smirked, killing the cigarette onto the floor of Mycroft's mind palace, leaving yet another permanent mark in it. 

"We can talk in the library, we will need all you know," he added on his way out and with a resigned sigh and last look at the child in the room, Mycroft turned to follow him.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote it awhile ago and it was rotting on my hard drive ever since. I'm trying to get rid of those never-posted fics, so here it is. ^_^


End file.
